Godspeed
by Melfice
Summary: In Jerusalem, when it rains it pours – and there's a storm on the horizon.  Altair/Malik.


**Godspeed**

_/ It is easy to pretend I don't know the man in the square, the one surrounded by a half dozen city guards. It is easy to pretend I am a citizen, one of the few who have dared to stay and watch from a distance – to watch but to stay uninvolved._

_It is easy enough until his sword is buried in a soldier's chest, stuck through halfway, and I see a man at his flank lunge forward into the blind spot he's left wide open. _

_It is against my better judgment to put myself into that fray, against my better judgment to pull the dagger from its sheath at my waist and to catch the guard across the wide expanse of his throat without a second thought._

_Against my better judgment, I am always there for him. /_

The clouds that roll in over the mountains are heavy, slow and languid, as though weighed down by their own contents, and they take the bright moon with them in one long stride. It is still too early for the summer rains, too late for the winter snows, but the wind that blows in with the clouds is cold in a way I don't think I'll ever be accustomed to. It blows through the streets, over buildings and around market stalls, and it paves the way for the deep rumble of thunder that follows it.

There are a few stragglers still awake, still congesting the streets, but they don't get in our way. Altair weaves through them, twists his body around them like they're immobile, and I follow on his heels like I know where he's going. The guards that are following us don't have the same finesse, don't have the same patience, and they stumble over trying to shove citizens out of their way.

The breeze picks up as we race past buildings and closed doors, blurs our surroundings into one fluid image, and the adrenaline and the rush of it all takes me someplace I haven't been in so long. A time when I had been young enough to be expected to make mistakes, a time when I had everything ahead of me. It reminds me of when I had trusted someone enough to stand beside them, to place some part of my own well being into their hands; it reminds me of a time when none of us had yet faced our own mortality.

With the moon gone it is harder to see – harder to see our surroundings when the wind is blowing lanterns dangerously back and forth from where they hang, flames casting jagged shadows over our path. Altair isn't any more used to this weather than I am, isn't any more accustomed to dealing with the debris and the sand blowing into us, but he is better at improvising. He makes up routes through dark alleys, leaps over fallen barrels and crates that the guards will trip over in their haste.

The chase leads us to an alley, in the face of a dead end, and it's then that the sky finally opens up angrily above us and the rains begin. It does not rain in Jerusalem so much as it pours, in torrents that collect in tiny rivers in the streets where there is nowhere for it to drain. It doesn't rain often enough for us to become familiar with it, to become accustomed to moving and fighting in it, but we've survived as long as we have by adapting; it may hinder us, but it won't _stop_ us.

I consider it a mistake to let Altair back into my life – to open my world up like it is something with doors, something that is capable of being underneath lock and key. It feels like a mistake in the same way it would feel to loan something precious out to someone who I forgot to be a thief, someone I forgot I wasn't supposed to trust, and it makes me feel vulnerable and open. Against my better judgment, I do leave myself open and I do let him back in.

In spite of my harsh words and my dread, or perhaps because of it, he does treat this renewed trust like it is something fragile – like it is something he is allowed to have, but that may be taken away again if he proves undeserving.

Altair fits back into my life as though he never left, fits perfectly back into a slot that has been noticeably empty for a long time. The space he left open is shaped like him, impossible to fill, and I've felt his absence like I've felt the loss of my arm. It is a noticeable recess in a part of me that had become accustomed to relying upon him, accustomed to having him; it is a space that I never looked to fill.

I want to say I don't remember how to fight alongside him. I want to say that, after all that has happened, I have forgotten something so intimate that we once shared, but it comes back to me the moment I curve away from the scimitar aimed at my midriff and Altair is _there_. The tip of the blade misses my body, grazes the floor with a swipe too exaggerated, and he moves in and around me, twists into the space where I had been moments before, and the soldier doesn't have an opportunity to block the blade in his unprotected throat.

I am terrified of the feeling that wells in me, of the heavy feeling that settles in my chest and refuses to move. I have missed this – I have missed _him_, with such ferocity that it scares me. I feel excited, panicked, and I feel _whole_.

There is another rumble of thunder above us, that I can feel vibrate through my entire body, but it isn't loud enough that I can't hear the sound of the man choking on his own blood, the sharp sound that follows when the hidden blade retracts back into the leather bracer.

The soldier's body has barely hit the floor when his comrade rushes at us, already over his shock and working on adrenaline, and he runs forward with his sword already reared back. Altair slides to the left easily, picking up the fallen soldier's sword as he goes, graceful and fluid and not at all haphazard and rough like the man approaching him. He brings the sword up in time to block the blade swung frantically at him from above, the loud _clang_ of steel meeting echoing through the alley.

There are two more soldiers running at us, from the other side of the alley, the sound of their metal armor clanking cacophonous, and we should be leaving. We shouldn't stay to fight this battle – we should leave. Yet, even as I think this, I adjust the grip on my dagger and move around where Altair has blocked the soldier's second frustrated swing. The man's ribs are unprotected in his haste and that's where my dagger slides, in between where the bones meet, and his body convulses terribly in shock when the blade pierces through to his stomach.

Altair shoves forward and pushes the soldier, who is gargling on his own blood in the back of his throat, over onto the ground.

These men are faceless, nameless, and there are countless numbers of them willing to die for their cause. I feel remorse for their deaths, but not guilt. As more rush into the alley to take the place of their fallen comrades, I feel frustrated by their blind devotion, but not guilt.

The two we face are not a challenge – the four that join them still places the odd in our favor. It isn't until there is the sound of shouting from the opening of the alley, the sound of reinforcements in numbers I can't discern, that I start to worry about our chances. It isn't until the two Templars move around the corner into sight, armored boots slow and heavy against the ground, that something in my mind finally insists, '_It is time to leave_.'

Another man rushes at us, breaking formation, and Altair is a moment too slow when he strikes at the man's neck. His wrist gets caught almost immediately, the soldier taking a step back to steady himself as he fights to keep his grip on Altair's bracer. Altair's feet slide against the rain slick ground as he tries to keep his footing, as he tries to punch the man in the face in order to retrieve his caught hand-

It takes only one rough kick to the soldier's side to knock him over, to send him toppling into a heap as he loses his balance, and I don't wait until he's hit the ground before I've grabbed Altair's arm.

"We are leaving," I tell him, and I glance back just once at the reforming group, at the Templars who are making their ways towards us like we are _prey_. Then I'm holding Altair's gaze, voice steeled, as I demand, "_Now_, Altair."

The wall at the end of the alley is an obstacle, not a death sentence, but it is an obstacle I have been painfully aware of since we ran into the dead end. There has been plenty of time to confront the limitations pressed upon me by the loss of my arm, plenty of mistakes made in compensating for it, but I am still adapting; grappling and scaling with one arm is not impossible, but it isn't _easy_ either.

It would be different if there was time on our side, but there is none and it leaves me no room to argue when Altair is the one who offers help that I will never want. He kneels next to the wall like he knows I'll accept, hands cupped – and I don't have time to think on it, don't have time to second guess him. His hands are sturdy underneath my boot when I step into them and I barely have time to bend my knee before he's propelling me upwards, far enough that my hand can find purchase on the stone ledge. I am up and over the wall in a breath, in one fluid motion, and I hate that I know how to adjust to his presence, to let him into everything that is mine.

Altair pulls himself up onto the ledge beside me, presses a hand against my back, another unspoken offer of help, but I shift away from it and drag myself to my feet.

"_Go_," I hiss, and I'm only steps behind Altair when he takes off sprinting across the rooftop.

We should split up, but we don't. There is no plan, no direction, but I follow Altair like we both know where we're going. It quickly deteriorates into running as far as we can, to put as much distance as manageable between ourselves and the group chasing us, but there's nowhere to hide when we're so far out in the open. There is little doubt in my mind we will lose them eventually, among structures and weather, but the rush of it all is comforting in a strange way.

The storm around us gets worse before it even considers getting better and it is far worse out of the shelter the surroundings buildings had provided in the alley; it is much worse on the rooftops, with nothing to block the wind. There is water in my eyes and once – twice – I almost lose my footing on the slick tiles and boards we are tearing across. It's difficult to keep Altair in my line of sight, difficult to see the edges I need to jump from let alone keep an eye on-

There's a flash of lightning, close enough that it stutters something in my chest, and bright enough that I see something snap out from behind one of the rooftop gardens as Altair approaches it-

"_Altair!_'

- and it's all a moment too late, when the _something_ I saw ends up stuck in Altair's shoulder – the snap of a blade that tears through cloth and skin, that Altair dodges seconds too late. It is an axe, or something similar, something that has enough force behind it that the impact sends him tumbling backwards, struggling to regain his balance and bearings.

The soldiers pulls back to swing again and it only takes two long strides for me to be there, to be close enough to strike, but Altair has already surged forward again; he is far too used to fighting alone, far too used to being the only one watching his back. I'm close enough to see the blade sink into the man's chest, a quick execution, and then Altair pulls his blade out and shoves the man with his free hand. He slides backwards, falls and rolls further down the rooftop, weapon sliding with him.

"_Damn it_," Altair hisses, one hand pressed tightly against his shoulder, and he stumbles back another step. It's my hand against his back that steadies him, that he leans into, and I can feel his breathing stutter underneath my palm. It's hard to see the wound from where I'm standing, especially with his hand pressed against it, but it is bleeding out from underneath his fingers and it may not be severe but it is _deep_.

There are shouts from our pursuers behind us, voices carrying over the storm, and it keeps me from saying anything; it keeps me from doing much else aside from pushing against his back and leading us towards the next rooftop.

The jump to the next building is almost too far – is far enough that my knees scrape against the edge when I land and, for a brief second, I almost think I have missed. I don't have time to stand before Altair lands next to me, stumbles onto the rooftop beside me. He lands on his feet, but goes straight to one knee, teeth gritted and a string of swears that blend together too easily.

We're not going to make it like this.

I hook my arm underneath his and help him up, pull him up, urge him forward again.

We've only taken a handful of steps forward when I hear him say, over the rain pounding in my ears, "_Hold on_," - and then he tightens the link of our arms and _shoves_ me to the left, to the edge of the roof, and then we're falling off of the rooftop without any further preamble.

There is a fleeting moment of panic in my chest, wherein I'm sure that Altair has lost his mind, but it is short lived.

I don't know how he knows what's beneath us, don't know how he can see it through the storm, but I trust him enough to fall.

The haystack catches us without a sound.

It is too wet, too matted, to hide us, but it breaks our fall. I have barely had time to open my eyes to the dark sky, barely had time to catch my breath, and then Altair is pulling me up and starting forward before I can even get both feet underneath me. He tugs me forward until I'm almost tripping more than walking, three steps haphazardly towards the building closest to us, and I lean against him to balance myself when he stops abruptly. He presses an arm across my chest, pushes me back against the wall of the structure as much as possible, until we're both underneath the wooden planks extending out from the rooftop above us. We are barely hidden when I hear the soldiers stomp out onto the edge of the rooftop, onto the wooden planks obscuring us from direct sight as they peer down onto the street.

There is the sound of metal boots overhead, clambering around with disregard to discretion. There are no shadows when the men glance over the roof, glance down to the clearing where we landed, but I can _feel_ their presence, can feel them looking for us. My breathing is quiet to my own ears, as though they would be able to hear it over the pounding rain and rumbling thunder.

Altair is cold, soaked, and the drenched fabric covering his arm is slowly stealing my body heat. The tear in his shoulder is strangely visible now, still slowly bleeding through the tear. His head is leaned against the stone wall, his mouth parted slightly as he breathes, but his eyes are cast upwards where the sounds of the soldiers has started up again. They shout back and forth over the storm, arguing about responsibility and duty, but none of them jump down after them. The voices are uncomfortably clear, uncomfortably close, but they're also desperate, impatient, and they don't linger for long.

Neither of us move until the voices, the footsteps and the clank of armor, all fade. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until I finally exhale, loudly, and I let my head fall back against the stone. I don't realize how cold, how tired I am until Altair withdraws his arm and the spot where it had been is suddenly chilled, open again to the wind.

Doors and windows have all been closed – shutters latched tightly and doors bolted shut – and it makes the streets of Jerusalem feel unwelcoming. It is easier to stay out of the wind when we keep to the alleys, when we stay between the buildings, but it doesn't stop the rain. We fight through the downpour the entire way, water in our eyes and impeding our progress, and the only saving grace is that it also keeps the guards off of the streets – keeps them underneath canopies and in guard towers where they'll be dry and warm.

It takes a long time to get back to where we started.

The garden, the exterior, of the bureau is wet and littered with puddles, but the inside is thankfully dry. The stone underneath my feet feels stable, feels safe, feels familiar. I'm exhausted, cold and tired and dripping wet, and I want nothing more than to fall onto the haphazardly arranged pile of textiles masquerading as a bed.

Sleep feels far away, feels like a dream in and of itself. There's a bleeding assassin following me, normally quiet but quieter still in the wake of the night's events, and I can't leave him to his own devices.

It takes me two tries to light the lantern on the counter, but the illumination is welcome. It casts my shadow on the far wall like a looming presence, one that moves around the room with me as I sit the lantern on the low table at the far end of the room. There's very little in our way – books, piles of books and scrolls, piles of unfinished work and unfinished research – and Altair stands lost among it all until I gesture to one of the empty stools.

"Sit down already."

He shrugs out of belts and holsters on his own, leaves them in a pile on the table, but it takes both of us to get his tunic over his head. The tunic is followed by his shirt, peeled slowly over the mess that now decorates his shoulder, and I throw it onto the table on top of everything else.

Shadows and candlelight make it hard to see the real damage, but even in the sparse light I can see the pattern of bruises sweeping over his chest and ribs. There are a dozen scratches and scrapes to accompany them, scars and burn marks and discolorations, and it is all old. The bruises are old, have turned purple and yellow, but are likely never given a chance to fully heal.

It's a conscious effort to be gentle when I press my fingers against his ribcage, feeling each bone through abused skin, checking each indention. He flinches away instinctively, but settles after a moment, and says, bitter, "The old wounds aren't the ones currently bleeding on your floor."

"No, but they are likely still giving you grief," I retort, easy. The bruises and abrasions are still tender, are old but still unhealed, but the bones are not cracked, not broken, and there's not much else I can do beyond assuring myself of that.

The wound on his shoulder is messy, but not severe. There are pieces of skin blocking the actual cut, pierced open but not detached, and they're already dirty and in the way. It is still red and fresh bleeding slowly again by the agitation that removing the stuck fabric had caused.

It takes time to gather supplies. A clean bowl for water, a scrap of cloth clean enough to press into raw skin, a nearly empty jar of salve and a handful of unused bandages. There is a lot missing from the stash I keep for injuries, a lot that has already been put to good use, and Altair's folly comes at an unfortunate time when my supplies are dwindling.

I press the dampened rag against the side of the bowl, press out the excess water, and I don't give him any warning before I start cleaning the wound on his shoulder. His body twitches slightly underneath the rag, that I work slowly over broken skin, and he twitches in a way he likely can't control. His breathing slowly works towards something resembling orderly, his muscles slowly relaxing from their almost absurd tenseness.

"All these cuts and bruises," I say, and I glance up once to catch his gaze, before moving my attention back to the task at hand. "This is the only body you get in this life, Altair."

"I'll ask the Templars to be gentler next time," he replies dryly.

The cut is deep, is fresh and needs time to heal, but is not severe and does not need any concern that I am not already giving it. It is just another mark he will carry. I have dealt with enough of them, have enough of my own, but I have always felt as though he is testing the waters – as though he is unconcerned with the limitations of flesh and bone.

It has always been this way between us. It has always been his bloody knuckles, him rushing head first into everything; it has always been him too headstrong and too stubborn and far too passionate. It has always been my calm that has leveled us, that has placed some sort of balance where there would otherwise have been none.

I do think about where we would be if I hadn't happened across the fight in the square. I wonder if it would be more than a clean slice through his shoulder, if the damage would have been irreparable. It's difficult to say what would happen differently in many of the instances I find myself tossed into with him.

It doesn't take long to clean and bandage the wound, especially not when he sits still and lets me work without issue. The wound will heal, over time, and the bandages will keep it safe. The bowl of water is tinted red, the rag stained, but his shoulder has stopped bleeding for the time being.

The shirt that he carefully pulls on, over the clean bandages, is still cold and damp. It is cold and damp over skin that I know to still be warm. It takes a lot longer for him to get his shirt and tunic back on by himself, to slowly begin reassembling the pieces and parts of who he is.

It is futile to tell him to wait, to tell him to rest; it is a waste of breath to tell him to stop when there are still tasks left unfinished. I watch his calculated steps, watch him slowly strap the leather bracer back onto his wrist – one strap after another, buckled and tightened. I watch because helping is encouraging his rashness, is encouraging the stubborn part of him that refuses to wait.

"Try not to alert the presence of every guard in Jerusalem this time," I suggest, and my eyes focus on the cut in the fabric of his tunic that stands out like a beacon. "I'm too tired to save you again."

"I hadn't intended for you to become involved," he hesitates halfway through buckling on his other bracer, looks up from the task and adds, "It is never my intention to involve you, but you are always by my side regardless."

"We are friends, are we not? Brothers?" I reply, and I gesture between us briefly. "I would expect the same from you; you do not have to ask for my support."

"And if I am asking?" The last few straps on his bracer are haphazardly buckled, fingers noticeably nervous, and he jerks the hood of his tunic over his head. He pauses, still half turned away, and I can't help but feel annoyed that he is hiding behind that white fabric. "I am asking."

"Since when do you speak in circles?" I ask, careful, and I grab his damp sleeve in loose fingers, "If there is something you mean to say, Altair-"

He doesn't move out of my grip – turns into it, moves into my space like it is somewhere he's allowed to be, and I let go of him of my own accord. One of his warm palms presses against my chest, curls around still-damp fabric and pulls me forward in one fluid motion. There is blood still smeared and dried across the back of his other hand, the one that he braces against my jaw. His hand is warm and rough – like his mouth that is suddenly against my own, open and determined and demanding.

My thoughts, my retorts, whatever I had been in the midst of saying are all caught in my throat, swallowed somewhere in between the moment I realize what is actually happening and the moment he licks a line into my mouth. My fingers twitch and hesitate, suspended between us like my indecision, but I can't be surprised – I can't have _not_ known how he felt. Now that it's in front of me, staring me down, it seems impossible that I wouldn't have realized this before. It seems impossible that I would have believed this, too, had been lost.

I settle my hand lightly around the wrist of the hand that is still pressed against my chest. The fingers resting on the curve of my jaw are callused and abused, skin toughened against stone, fingernails that have been torn and wrecked from digging into hard surfaces. The feel of them is familiar, reminiscent of something I once had, and the hard edges of his fingers make my nerves feel sharp and alert.

I have _missed_ him.

He smells like the sand when it rains after a drought, smells of blood and steel and leather. He is still warm somehow, a firm line of heat that curves along my body like it is supposed to be there, that presses into me in ways that are familiar and foreign and altogether too difficult to wrap my mind around. He doesn't give me time to get my bearings, leaves me playing catch up, like he can't stand to wait and see what would happen – like he can't stand to see what I am thinking. He has no expectations, is laying himself out bare and open, and when I _lean into him_, when I accept him, he pulls away as though suddenly unsure.

His mouth is too far away from where I'd like it to be, but his hand is still on my face, against my skin, his eyes open and searching-

His eyes follow my tongue when I lick my lips, watch me, and he doesn't move away when I disregard his hesitation. I lean forward again, press against the weight that is still pinning me, and he doesn't move away this time. He stays there, curls his fingers around my skin, and I can _feel_ his breath catch in his throat when my lips graze his again-

It's the sound of metal against stone that causes me to freeze, movements halted. His eyes are glazed over, body stiff, and his eyes dart to the side – to where the sounds and the movements in the garden are suddenly obscenely noticeable, obscenely loud in contrast to the quiet permeating the air around us. His grip on me clenches and relaxes as we watch the slow light of a lantern move across the outside walls, shadows jumping left and right, and there's a sliver of light that sneaks its way through the open doorway-

"_Strange place – looks like someplace someone could hide. Crawl back to lick their wounds, eh?"_

"_The captain says we're to report back-"_

"_Shut it. What if we find that assassin hiding down here?"_

His eyes move slowly back to mine, his expression calm, his resolve set. His lips twist upwards into a familiar smirk, and he pulls away. It is strange how the loss of contact is more noticeable once I've had it, how much more frustrating it is to have this taken away from me just as I was finding it again. I want to hold on to him, to keep him close, but it will have to wait.

He looks to me questioningly and I curl my finger around the hilt of the dagger sheathed at my waist, glance once at the opening and then back to him and mouth, "_Go_."

Against my better judgment, when he moves, I follow.


End file.
